Grabbing the recently vacated chair, heaving himself into it, Rudi sat down, reached for the crackling and leaning forward over the whole table, dropped his voice to a whisper.
‘What’s going on, my Hermann? People like the one who just left come bearing papers from the Reichssicherheitshauptamt? You know as well as I that those people are untouchable. One glance at such papers is enough. No questions are ever asked. Everything wanted is done immediately.’
Pink-rimmed and small under flaxen brows, the pale blue eyes narrowed fiercely as this Bavarian with the round and florid cheeks doubled fists as big as hams.
‘Why here, why this one, Hermann, why yourself and why my restaurant for which I have slaved the whole of my life?’
Emotional enough, Helga must have been in tears. ‘Ach, it’s nothing, Rudi. Just some cock-up notion of Kaltenbrunner’s. Girls from Bucharest, Prague and Budapest, I think.’
‘Madchenhandel?’
White-slave traffic. ‘Why else the acid in that Kriminalrat’s stomach when he’s used to hunting far bigger fish?’
Hermann was just ragging him. ‘It has to be because of what happened to our dear Doktor Ritter. Assassinated in our very own streets even though those verfluchte Banditen are being smashed all over France. Don’t those people know there is no hope for them? In June, over sixty terrorist cells from the Sedan through to Paris and on down the Loire to Nantes taken. More than five hundred tonnes of illegally parachuted explosives and weapons from the British recovered. Then in late August and early September another three hundred more arrests all the way down the Biscay Coast to the foothills of the Pyrenees and now yet another bunch of railway dynamiters in Brittany and more arrests. Wireless sets, guns and explosives.* Why must they ignore the fact that the Fuhrer will never lose this war, not when he has …’
Heads were urgently motioned closer. ‘Wunderwaffen.’
Miracle weapons.
‘Flying bombs.’*
A veteran of the Munich Putsch, a Brownshirt survivor and dyed-in-the-wool Nazi whose hair was cut short and worn in SS and Wehrmacht style, Rudi reached for the stein a still upset Helga shy; had quickly set before him only for her to then rush away.
Draining it, he wiped his lips on a forearm and said darkly, ‘If not the Banditen, my Hermann, then why did Herr Ludin threaten this one enough to cause him to slide the Kippenzinn of someone else across the table?’
‘And while you’re at it, Hermann, enlighten us as to who informed him that we would be meeting here?’
‘A private with bad eyesight.’
Or Dillmann himself. ‘Can no one be trusted?’
‘That little problem will be dealt with since a deal is a deal when cut.’
Fortunately Rudi was called away by a late delivery from a person named none other than Werner, Helga having brought their dinners and still unable to calm the tears. ‘My Hermann,’ she said, flooding him with those milkmaid-blue eyes. ‘Why us, why now when Rudi’s little Julie is about to give birth and his Yvette won’t even speak to him?’
‘Trouble always comes in threes, Helga. Don’t worry, everything will be fine. Just bring Louis a bottle of that red stuff Rudi uses to marinate the schnitzel and the liver.’
‘The Chateau Margaux or the Chateau Lafite?’
‘Either. Now let me dry those tears. Louis and I would never let anything bad happen to you and Rudi.’
Hesitant, the kiss became warmer when Hermann’s hands slipped down that blue work dress to those chunky hips.
Everyone took to cheering because Helga had been after Hermann ever since they’d started occasionally eating here back in the autumn of 1940… .
‘You’re a saint,’ said St-Cyr when she had left them. ‘Me, I’m impressed.’
‘Werner wouldn’t have told anyone anything, but his Schutze Hartmann, who sold me this first-aid kit, might have since he must have overheard that one mention Rudi’s name.’
‘And what, exactly, is this deal?’
‘Nothing, really. Werner will keep an eye out and let us know when and if anything turns up.’
‘Through Rudi?’
‘Ach, I had to tell him something and there wasn’t time to think about possible repercussions.’
They had eaten as few would in a city where far too many had to get by on less than 1,500 calories a day and the schools had cancelled all physical education. Helga, having brought second helpings of a magnificent Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte, now refreshed their coffee with another packet of cigarettes and a plate of Lebkuchen. A film, a dinner out would be racing through her mind, Hermann kissing the back of her hand, she rushing off with thoughts of the future.
‘Your “treasure,” Hermann? Did you have to say that to her? Haven’t we enough trouble?’
‘We may need Rudi’s help and that might just cement it. Bolduc’s vans are also moving people.’
‘Into and out of Paris? The PPF?’
‘Miliciens, too, probably, since the High Command are still reluctant to let those bastards leave the former free zone.’
Some had gotten in before and they had had a run-in with them, but this was terrible news for it had to mean Hector Bolduc shy; and others of the far right must feel those types were desperately needed. A paramilitary force, the Milice francaise had only just been given a scattering of weapons, mainly captured British materiel shy; that had been dropped to the Resistance. Violently anti- shy;Communist shy;, anti-de Gaulle, the Resistance, the Masons, Jews, Gypsies and others, they had quickly become known and hated shy; for the savagery of their reprisals. ‘Perhaps that’s why Bolduc didn’t particularly care that one of his vans hadn’t arrived last Thursday and told Yvonne Rouget to give them another few days.’
‘But did our Anna-Marie know of what those bank vans were really up to, Louis? Is that not why, on seeing one at the side of the road ahead of them on the RD 380 to the east of Reims, she felt it would be a way of escaping the others and getting through the control?’
‘Or did they also know of her, Hermann?’
‘You’d better tell me what you’ve found.’
‘It’s where to begin that’s troubling me. Not only have I encountered shy; a minefield, it’s bound to take us if we’re not careful.’
Breaking a couple of the cookies, Louis reminded himself of the aromas of nutmeg and cloves, and of allspice and ginger. Around them the earnest forgetfulness of the crowd hadn’t abated shy;, more having arrived and waiting to be seated.
‘Those shoes, Hermann, were meant for her. Bien sur, they didn’t quite fit. Not wanting to be so visible, she probably made up some excuse for not being able to go to Monnier herself in mid-August of last year and must have given Nicole Bordeaux her size and other details.’
‘That consumptive?’
‘That socialite who has made it her life’s role to bring Occupier and Occupied together so as to foster collaboration and country-to-country tours for musicians like Cortot or singers like Maurice Chevalier, artists as well, and writers, actresses and actors. Gatherings, Hermann, every two weeks at her mansion on the rue de La Boetie.’
Right in the heart of where the Occupier felt safest. Not two blocks from Gestapo and Surete headquarters and but a pleasant stroll or drive from the SD and SS on the avenue Foch.
Good, Hermann was beginning to see the gravity of things. ‘The shoes were to have gone with the dress, the slip and all the rest that Madame Bordeaux had chosen for her. Everything-now get this, please-was delivered a good fourteen months ago to Studio 51, Salle Pleyel, home of Les Amies francaises.’
‘An escort service?’
Disbelief had registered in Hermann’s expression. ‘Me, I think you should be asking whose.’